


Squib Theory

by DHume



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gen, Harry Potter Next Generation, Harry Potter does Sociology, Multi, OCs everywhere, Squib Theory
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-10-13
Updated: 2011-10-13
Packaged: 2017-10-24 14:13:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/264366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DHume/pseuds/DHume
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A tentative long!fic exploring a possible path a squib could take, shamelessly taken from Charles, of misterstibbons.tumblr.com. I'm planning to do parts of this for NaNoWrimo in a few weeks, but I wanted feedback on whether it was a Bad Idea and I was a Bad Writer or not first, because it's... Harry Potter Fic. Enjoy the first few thousand words!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Introduction

**Author's Note:**

> This is all pretty much unedited! It's mainly up here until NaNo starts because I'm really convinced it's a pathetic idea and I shouldn't write it, so any comments telling me what you think of this rough-ass beginning would be really appreciated, even if it's to say, "You suck!". Especially that, actually, since I need to know these things before I drive myself insane writing novel-length fanfiction. Thanks.

Taken from [Charles](http://www.misterstibbons.tumblr.com)' Tumblr:

 

  
_"A squib is born into a pureblood family. Although they don’t have any inherent magical ability, they’re reasonably smart and very eager to learn, so they personally appeal to Dumbledore and end up going to Hogwarts, where they work out some arrangement and end up becoming one of the foremost magical historians of their age._   


  
__  
  
  
_Or not._   


  
__  
  
  
_But it’d be an interesting situation."_   


__

__

 


	2. Cassie's Early Life

__

__

For Cassandra, every birthday was like a ticking time bomb.

Now that she was older she knew that at least some of her birthdays - the earlier, first few - must have been at least happier and free from worried expectation, but she can’t remember these ones. She wishes she could. Every late February, when the frost was thick on the ground and the woollen cloaks were worn almost all of the time, her parents became that much more firm and unhappy, their mouths turning downwards and their movements becoming calculated and sharp. The ‘medicinal’ potions Cassie knew were supposed to convince her unwilling body to show any magical ability at all cluttered the breakfast table and her mother made a big show of fussing over her and making sure that she took her ‘anaemia remedies’ and other vitamins at the right time and the right doses. By late February her mother’s faint hope had left her entirely and her parents avoided Cassie, shutting themselves up in the study and leaving her  to amuse herself amongst the dusty heirlooms and thick carpets of the living room.

By her eighth birthday her parents were looking at Muggle schools.

Despite their disappointment Cassie knew that they loved her and wanted the best for her, and the glossy brochures - their pictures didn’t move, and Cassie had wondered why for a whole week after seeing the first bundle - spoke of wide grounds and manicured lawns, neat uniforms and education in a whole range of subjects and languages -  most of all Latin. The only thing the schools had in common apart from being expensive and far away were the fact that they all taught it, and her father had informed her that the dead language was what the first magical people had based their spells on and that it was the language of magic. 

 

By the next birthday Cassie had been at one of these schools for over a term.

This birthday was no less dreary, though her daily letters home about missing her family had at least prompted more presents than Cassie had seen at once in her life. Most of them turned out to be potions at usual, but a few were ingenious Muggle toys like the ones her classmates had and a treasured soft toy dragon, a Common Welsh Green. She even got a poster of her favourite Quidditch Team to tack on her small allotted wall space and lay at night holding the dragon and remembering the  Appleby Arrows away match her father had taken her to midway between the dreaded Februaries. If the other girls in her dorm heard crying, they never said.

In her spare time Cassie would sit on the lawns - nowhere near as pristine as their parents had seen after students had got hold of them, which Cassie liked - and read magical history books her parents had sent her again and again. They were her only link save her parent’s carefully-guarded letters of reply to the world of her home and she was soon on her way to having learnt every word of them. When it came to the holidays Cassie would clutch her initialled trunks, ignoring the sly looks and giggles the other students shot at her odd clothes and manner and imagining that the Muggle train arriving to take her cross crountry was maroon and wreathed in steam, and that the platform was 9 and 3/4, rather than a mundane 11 or 5.

 

For going to Hogwarts was Cassie’s dream in life. Back when her parents had still held hope that she would not have to go to a Muggle school and live a Muggle life they had filled her head with stories about the academy somewhere in Scotland and home to all the best young magical folk in Britain. She had read Hogwarts: A History a hundreds times over and could if asked have named any tradition or ghost that wandered the halls there; she could have pointed out any famous portrait and named its date of painting or any part of the castle that had been magically restored to glory after the Great Battle. 

As the years went on and she grew from cute to gangly, her dragon smaller and more bedraggled by thrice-yearly _Reparo_ charms her parents seemed to grow a little happier; as if being free from the burden of wondering when their Disgrace would grow into a proper witch was the best thing that had happened to them. When no emerald-inked letter arrived and the owls brought only bills or friend’s letters that summer holiday it wasn’t mentioned, and instead of mourning the passing of an opportunity her parents announced something far bigger.

Her mother was going to have a baby. They’d been trying, they said, for a while and hadn’t wanted to mention in it their (infrequent at best) letters or in her visits to home (where they avoided talking to her anyway) until they knew for certain that her mother would be healthy and able. They’d consulted the best midwitches and had already saved a private room in St. Mungo’s for when the baby was estimated to arrive. They were almost certain that it was going to be a boy.

Cassie wasn’t angry. Nor was she upset, or even surprised. In the logical and simple way a girl of eleven can sometimes take unexpected news or crises she reasoned that it was best to give her parents a second chance at having a normal baby wizard and that they seemed happier than they had been for a good long while anyway. 

What Cassie was, however, was determined.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I first started writing this I had the idea that the current Hogwarts Headmaster would have been preceded by Minerva, and was to be an original character (sorry! Sorry! Butchering, I know). However, before I could completely flesh out my man's name (hence the crossed out HeadmasterHeadmaster as a substitute), and further his background, I was informed that in the period I was writing Minerva McGonagall was still the Headmistress. This hasn't actually been verified, and since I've completely filled this world with OCs I'd quite like to go the whole hog anyway. Besides, I quite like the quintessentially shrewd, occasionally-away-with-the-inspirational-fairies character I've made the Headmaster here out to be, since he's a very different sort to how McGonagall and Dumbledore were portrayed in the books. After reading this chapter, what do /you/ think?

The unmistakeable sound of stone scraping against stone disturbed Headmasterheadmaster, who was in the middle of writing a large letter on a piece of parchment stretching from the top of the desk to the floor, down the steps and and eventually curling upon itself. As ~~Headmasterheadmaster~~ wrote it the parchment magically lengthened, so that it looked fast to take over the entirety of the office floor.

 ~~Headmasterheadmaster~~ barely had time to set his large, glossy raven’s feather quill in a silver ink pot when the source of the scraping revealed itself to be one of Hogwarts’ professors, standing on the top step of the office’s moving staircase. Their plain teacher’s robes were in disarray and their right sleeve, holding a tiny and watchful scops owl, had been so scratched and savaged that they looked like their recent classes had involved sticking their arm in the mouth of a lion.

 ~~Headmasterheadmaster~~ regarded them over steepled fingertips. “Hello, Professor Longbottom. May I ask to what I owe the pleasure of your visit? If it’s about the owl, you needn’t have worried. I do check my personal correspondence early, you know.”

The man in question frowned. “Sorry, sir. I only brought this one up since it was making such a fuss and disturbing my students.”

 ~~Headmasterheadmaster~~ quirked an eyebrow. “Whatever could a delivery owl have to do with Herbology?”

“Well, I first found it in Greenhouse no.1 when one of the girls from Gryffindor reported it, and it was in a right state. I tried freeing it and-“ he held up his arm further. “Once I got it free the blasted thing sped off and I thought nothing of it, but I was walking past downstairs to deliver some things to Poppy and she said there’d been complaining about a knocking noise. It turns out it’s been banging itself against the gargoyles for an hour or so, persistent bugger. I’m surprised you haven’t noticed it.” 

Looking around, Neville seemed to see for the first time the expansive parchment which evidently answered the question as to what had absorbed the Headmaster’s attention and grimaced at the parchment, moving his left foot away from a stray foot of writing. “As soon as I opened the stairs it calmed down and settled itself here.”

 ~~Headmasterheadmaster~~ unlaced his fingers and motioned for the owl, angling his wrist toward Neville in the owls’ direction. So meekly that ~~Headmasterheadmaster~~ would never have believed Neville’s story if he hadn’t had similar things happen to him many a time the owl alighted and left Neville’s outstretched arm, coming to rest on ~~Headmasterheadmaster~~ arm where he easily transferred him to his paperwork-covered desk. The purple and blue ribbons tied crossways on the miniature bird’s legs came off easily enough and a tightly-folded cylinder of vellum slid off its legs onto ~~Headmasterheadmaster~~ hand.

“Thank you, Professor; no doubt all of the teachers in my neck of the castle will be very grateful, not to mention your students. I apologise for the robe.”

As he spoke Neville’s green robe repaired itself, the fibres knitting together, the blood soaking the fabric siphoning away and the wrinkles smoothing until the garment looked as good as new. He nodded at Neville, and the Professor turned and descended again on the staircase, muttering the password at the statues. 

 ~~Headmasterheadmaster~~ turned his attention back to the owl. “So, little one, why didn’t you come in through the window? It’s always open for-“

Turning round to see his small, high window which was meant to be open for his winged guests (complete with perch and a nice supply of pellets from Diagon Alley) ~~Headmasterheadmaster~~ was instead confronted with closed and latched shut glass. It seemed that his recent “attack of the academicals” as his Deputy called it had meant more than just being deaf to knocking noises. 

 

He let the scops nip his fingers by way of apology and reached up to the paper bag of pellets to feed it a few pieces, brushing the smelly dust off his fingers once it had finished gorging itself.

Once he’d made up for his absentmindedness he opened the high window and once more picked up the owl, letting it hop over the small sill and fly back to wherever it had come from. It had been a while since the Headmaster had seen such a determined and small bird, and he was looking forward to the letter of whoever owned such an owl - if it was a private owl. He suspected no-one employed by the Owl Office would bother to train one to be so persistent, though, a thought born by several years of experience with lost parcels and letters at the hands of non-private owl delivery.

Carefully straightening the curve of the envelope and breaking the seal (a Muggle postage stamp holding the triangle over the rest where a wax dot would be) the Headmaster read:

 _Dear Sir,_

 _My name is Cassandra and I am a pureblood witch._

 _Or at least, I am supposed to be. My parents do not take the same view as they think that I am a Disappointment and a Squib, but I know that the wand is not what makes the witch and anyway I could still show signs of magic. I have always wanted to go to Hogwarts and I have read Hogwarts: A History about a hundred times and that isn’t even_ _~~hipe~~_ _hyperbole. I am writing to you to_ _~~ask~~_ _appeal that even though I am not in posesion of a wand that I still be allowed to_ _~~attend~~_ _go to Hogwarts because I know that lots of classes do not use ‘wandwork’ and my mother never uses her wand anyway so I think I shall be all right. I know my parents think that pure blood is important and I want to make my mother and father proud and anyway I have spent the last 3 years at a Muggle school far away from home and it was Horrid. I know that my letter would be late if it ever came but I would be ever so good and wouldn’t even mind if I had to go on Probation like my house matron used to say happened to bad children, and I wouldn’t ever complain or be homesick since I have been at school a hundred miles away since before all the other children so I have more experience I expect. I would do extra study in the classes I couldn’t do so I would never slack off or be lazy and I would never complain I promise. Also I don’t like to be rude but the last letter I sent a month ago never got an answer so I have told Bertie (my owl) that he should bother you until you reply but I promise he’ll leave off you even if it is a rejection although I personally don’t advise it if you value your fingers. He will be back a few hours after delivering this to you even if he leaves for a bit to await your reply._

 _Also my parents don’t know that I wrote this so please give your reply to Bertie instead of writing it to my house because they are having a Proper Magical Baby this time around so I don’t want to bother them unless you say yes_

 _From_

 _Cassandra_

The letter was inkstained and smudged in places, with crossed out words littering the pages and a few of the harder words misspelt. It was obvious that as the writer had reached the end of the space they had cramped their writing to make up for it and ~~Headmasterheadmaster~~ guessed that she had either stolen or borrowed the stationery to write it on. 

Apart from the ordinariness of the letter and the fact that it was like every other piece of writing by an eleven year old he had read (though with slightly bigger words, which he guessed was the product of the sort of child that read curricular tomes for fun) it was quite the oddest thing he had ever received.

A closer read through of the meandering sentences and odd phrases confirmed that girl who was writing to him was a Squib: they were far from rare, although he had never heard of a pureblood family whose only child had turned out to not have an ounce of magical ability. He imagined that it would have been a horrible experience, and pitied this girl who had taken the time to write to him. 

 ~~Headmasterheadmaster~~ had always regarded it as a waste that the ever-contracting magical gene pool insisted in shunting off its non-magic-weilding members to the corners of society. He suspected that the main reason the late Argus Filch had remained an unpleasant and bitter man was relegation to the same fate, to say nothing of the few Squibs that he had corresponded with since becoming Headmaster when the much-waited for letters never arrived in their homes. It was a bit of an epidemic really; a Muggleborn mediwizard at St. Mungo’s had declared the calculations of magical ability ‘worse than a recessive Gene*’ and quite apart from it triggering a scandal when some outraged old biddies had written to the Prophet expressing annoyance at being compared to Muggle trousers, it had made the wizarding equivalent of mad scientists suddenly sit up and take notice.

 ~~Headmasterheadmaster~~  certainly hadn’t been very fond of the month of scare-mongering stories like ‘Wizarding Race Set to Die Out’, ‘We Survived You-Know-Who For This???’ and the humorously grim ‘Are You Turning Into a Muggle Right Now?’ that had followed in the various newspapers after _that_.

As well as the predictable anti-Muggle sentiment, ~~Headmasterheadmaster~~ recalled that career-witches had also come under fire and conservative wizards had demanded witches return to ‘where they belonged; the ever-important hearth to raise the next generation’. Thankfully that had lasted only until all of the Muggle-born and half-bloods who had a lick of sense or history knowledge telling them to shut up, but the casual complaint from one St. Mungo’s employee had had far-reaching and unpleasant consequences that year for sure.

If anything, the Mugglisation of those who didn’t receive school letters affected Hogwarts negatively, too. ~~Headmasterheadmaster~~ remembered the first moment that he had heard of the droves of British preteens fleeing to oversees schools en mass or back home to be educated by a parent or trusted tutor. Hogwarts, it seemed, had enjoyed too much of a chequered past recently to be an unquestionable choice for parents choosing where to send their children to spend their formative years.

 ~~Headmasterheadmaster~~ had never recieved such a resourceful letter from a Squib, in fact (how the term irked him, what it conjured up in the minds eye- who indeed wanted to be compared to something defective?). There was the tantalising threat of blackmail and battery in the part about ‘Bertie’ coupled with the enterprising suggestions and hints of bargaining and bravery in the letter which begged for a sorting hat, as well as the undeniable logic of it all; which as a Ravenclaw he valued highly in a seemingly stupid world. It was true, he admitted grudgingly to himself, that these days what with automatic charms and potions and with magical contraptions these days one hardly needed a wand, as Cassandra had rightly said. The letter had the air of one arguing for employment, as if the child knew they would have to fight for their position. That alone was interesting, in a world where all of her peers would have not only received an invitation to Hogwarts without fanfare but would have been expecting it.

It seemed that this letter was a perfect opportunity to kill two birds with one stone, as the Muggles called it.

If ~~Headmasterheadmaster~~ was inventive about this, he could not only save an innocent soul from similiar fates to Filch and co, but also bring attention and glory to Hogwarts from the public  & government, and possibly make progress for others like Cassandra everywhere, too.

 ~~Headmasterheadmaster~~ resealed the letter and with a muttered _Replicae_  produced three extra copies of the document which he put in envelopes of their own and addressed to the Board of Governors, St. Mungo’s R&D and his Deputy respectively with an attached note.

Last of all he got up and replenished the dish of owl food by his window, taking care this time to leave it propped open. Casting a quick Heating Charm to banish the sudden draft he put his desk back to order and busied himself with his long parchment again, though his mind was on the strange letter. This was going to be… Interesting.


	4. To Diagon Alley!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yet /more/ OCs! Terribly sorry, chaps.

The feeling of self-satisfaction and greedy delight at having pulled off a wonderful trick Cassie had felt at successfully sending the three letters to Hogwarts waned after the second week without a reply had drawn to a close. Her parents had been caught up in baby fever and although her daily run-ins with them warranted a smile and a few pounds pressed into her hand to visit the local Muggle shop with, they still seemed to regard her as an outsider to the family; a kindly stranger who nonetheless was politely unwanted and who just got in the way. Five days after the announcement, her mother had disappeared to the exclusive ‘Hecate’s Outfitting: Luxury Robes For All Stages In Life’ for a whole day and returned with swathes of maternity clothes in a riot of colour. A few days later her father had gone to look for cots; Cassie had been a reluctant tagalong and so had been allowed a glorious afternoon wandering round the forbidden fruit that was _Wizarding Shops_ , pressing her face against the glass of the broomstick suppliers and holding her nose when she peeked inside the sulphuric apothecary opposite the ice cream shop. As she was on her own no one thought to connect her with ‘That Poor Squib Child’, and so she was free to browse as she liked with no whispers or pitying looks afforded her on the way.

Walking into the large, shiny bookshop she was struck by the sense of having wandered into a Aladdin’s cave of paper treasures, all with titles and covers more fantastic than the last. Some of them that she thought must be biographies had fancy portraits on them, and as she rushed past a promoted display, the identical books stacked in the way she recognised from the Waterstones near her school, the witch staring out from each oval window winked naughtily at her and gave a salute from a hundred different angles, making her giggle in delight.

“Fan of her work, are you?”

A pile of books over a foot high to Cassie’s left wobbled, and with a start she realised that there was a real person behind them, holding them up. As the stack rotated the strange sight resolved itself into a smiling face of a boy about her age, mousy hair framing a pair of smart glasses that would have looked more at home on a professor- or at least a proper adult, Cassie privately thought. He waggled his head from side to side giving him the air of a Halloween ghost. “Gus Fairchild. I would wave or shake your hand or something, but-“ The stack of books trembled a bit at the second waggle of his head that he’d decided to use as a substitute.

For a moment Cassie just stood there debating whether she ought to tell this boy her real name, but manners soon won over canniness and she waggled her own head back to imitate him, smiling widely. “Cassie. Pleased to meet you!”


End file.
